


Mary and Molly and the Misandrist's Mail

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Greg helps, Mary and Molly Solve a Crime, The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7095724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Molly learns that she can change jobs and change addresses, but there are some things that will never change. Based on the ACD short story "The Adventure of the Cardboard Box."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Ear Ye, 'Ear Ye!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based on the original ACD tale called “The Adventure of the Cardboard Box.” All of the quotes from this story are in italics, with my apologies and grateful thanks to the great man who wrote them.

000

“Am I really doing the . . . the right thing?” Molly asked Mary anxiously as Greg navigated them through the Edinburgh streets in his BMW.

“Can you ask?” Mary demanded with feigned impatience, twisting around in the front seat so as to better speak to her friend in the back. “I mean, can you ask yet again? Dr Molly Hooper, Chair of Pathology of the University of Edinburgh College of Medicine. It’s only one of the most prestigious medical schools in the world. And they asked for you—you didn’t even apply for the job! How can this not be the right thing?”

“This is the question you ought to have asked yourself before paying the movers to pack all your belongings into a van and sending them off to Scotland yesterday,” Greg added dryly. “And before I drove for seven plus hours to get you here.”

Mary smacked Greg’s shoulder. “Hush, you,” she admonished him playfully. “You were driving up to teach that training class at St. Leonard’s anyway. Molly, don’t listen to him. You have every right to change your mind at any time. But I urge you not to! You must at least give the job a go before you chuck it. Promise me you’ll give it a real, honest try. ”

Molly sighed and nodded slowly. Her friend was right, of course, but it was a hard choice for her to make. Yes, it was a once-in-a-lifetime career advance, but she was leaving so much behind.

“As for Sherlock the Oblivious, you know the old saying: absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Mary continued as if reading her mind. “He’s been taking you for granted for eight years now, six since I’ve known you. Let’s see what he does now you’re gone—he may surprise you.”

“Of course, there’s another old saying: out of sight, out of mind,” Greg remarked realistically, earning another punch from Mary—this one not so playful.

“You’re utterly horrid,” the young doctor told the detective inspector without rancour. “Just drive and leave the philosophizing to us.” 

Molly had been watching Greg and Mary interacting in the front seat all day; their cheerful, caring banter was amusing, and yet it had continually reminded the young pathologist of all she was leaving behind as she made this move. When Mary Morstan had swept into all their lives six years ago, she had drawn them all into her irresistible web of affection and formed them into a family of sorts—John, of course, and Sherlock; but also Mrs Hudson, Greg, and Molly. Until Mary came along, Molly had been unable to see John and Greg at all, since she had seen them only in the company of Sherlock Holmes; and in Sherlock’s presence, all others had faded from her perception. Mary had invaded that near-sightedness and quickly established herself as Molly’s best friend, pulling her inexorably into relationships with the others. 

When she had been offered this position in Edinburgh, Molly’s only hesitation had been Sherlock. After the “Tom” fiasco, Molly had held out some hope of being noticed at last by the consulting detective. But reason had taken over, and she had accepted the job. It was, as Mary said, a great honour and wonderful opportunity. 

Mary had been her staunchest supporter, helping her to pack and then volunteering to travel with her to Molly’s new home to help her set up housekeeping in the flat the college had procured for her near the school. They had planned to follow the moving van to Edinburgh by train, but then Greg had offered to take them in his car, since he was driving up that direction anyway. 

But watching Greg and Mary, more father and daughter than friends, had made Molly realize that she was leaving behind much more than just Sherlock Holmes. In centring her decision around whether to give up on Sherlock or not, she had neglected to consider that she was leaving her best friends behind as well. All that long trip, she had savoured each little joke and gesture between her friends, understanding at last all that she had gained in the past six years since John had brought Mary into her life.

Now Mary was looking back at her soberly, reading her thoughts as easily as Sherlock read a footprint. “We’ll always be best friends, you and I, no matter the miles. We’ll text and Skype and get onto each other’s Facebook pages every day. And we’ll visit each other so often you’ll hardly know we’re apart.” 

Molly nodded thoughtfully. “We could even . . . we could write letters and put them in the post,” she suggested with a ghost of a smile. “I’ve always wanted a pen pal, with real pens.”

“You can always come home, you know,” the young doctor added softly. “If it just isn’t working for you, you can always come back. You know Mike will take you back at St. Bart’s in a heartbeat. You could live with John and me until you got a new flat. But for your own sake, my dear, you must give this a chance. It’s too big to pass up this great ‘is’ for a ‘might be’.”

Molly sighed. Her friend, as was so often the case, was right of course. And she knew that if Mary said she would stay in touch, she would. But Molly did wonder if Sherlock would ever bother to visit. Travel, unless it was for The Work, held no interest for him. He was obsessed with London. He loved to lie in the very centre of eight millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running through then, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime.

“Here you are, ladies,” Greg interrupted her reverie cheerfully. “Looks nice, Molly. You’ve landed your feet, for certain!”

The building was, indeed, a grand one. Molly pulled the information she’d been given concerning her new accommodations from her bag and read through them again. Ms Susan Cushing, who owned this entire block of flats, herself lived in the lower level of the house Molly was now to call home. What had once been a row of posh houses for the faculty of the college had been divided into a great number of flats, able to accommodate triple the number of residents; but their former old-world elegance had been carefully preserved-- lovely old buildings with well-tended gardens.

Mary physically pulled Molly from the car and dragged her up to the front door. Greg carried their luggage for them onto the front stoop while Mary rang the old-fashioned doorbell.

Ms Cushing soon opened the door to them and Molly introduced herself. Susan Cushing was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. She led them into her private office, which was just off the stairway to the first floor. “My dear Dr Hooper, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she said sincerely. “It’s lovely to meet such an accomplished young woman. Chair of a Division of the University College of Medicine! You must be proud to be at the top your field of study. It’s a privilege to have you living under my very roof.”

“Thank you,” Molly ventured shyly. Mary elbowed her jocundly. “Oh, this is my great friend Mary Watson—Dr Watson—and this is. . . .”

“A pleasure, a pleasure,” Ms Cushing gushed, taking Mary’s hand. “Another accomplished, professional young woman. I’m sorry, I was under the impression that Dr Hooper would be living alone. There’s another bedroom upstairs. If you’ll be needing two bedrooms,” she added, looking at them with a speculative eye.

“Oh, no, we won’t be needing two,” Mary grinned, shooting Molly a look of wicked glee. “You’re very kind, but I’ll not be staying, Ms Cushing. I’m helping get Molly settled, and then it’s back to London for me.”

Ms Cushing looked disappointed. “You can have your driver take your things on up, then. It’s open—your moving men arrived this morning and put all your things in place. I hope you find it satisfactory,” the business-like lady continued.

“Yes, driver, carry our luggage upstairs why don’t you,” Mary said imperiously to Greg. “Go on, off with you!” Greg looked aggrieved but gathered their things up again.

“Don’t you dare, Greg! You’ve . . . you’ve done so much for us already!” Molly found courage to exclaim. “Thank you for bringing us here. You needn’t trouble with our bags. I can’t . . . I can’t tell you how I appreciate all you’ve done.” Impetuously, she threw her arms around him in a grateful hug, one he seemed pleased to return.

Mary giggled. “Yes, thank you, Greg. You’re the best!” she agreed, hugging him as well. “I know you have an appointment to keep. We mustn’t make you late. Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine.”

Greg smiled at them fondly. “Call me if you need me,” he said. “And I’ll come round to pick you up day after tomorrow, Mary. See you later.” And off he went.

Ms Cushing frowned. “I hope you don’t make a habit of having men friends in your flat,” she murmured disagreeably. “Messy, smelly, uncouth creatures, all of them. The world would be better off without them, is what I say,” she added with a sniff.

“Well, I. . . .” Molly faltered, surprised that this seemingly gentle, middle-aged lady was so vitriolic against the opposite sex. 

“Molly would like to pick up her keys, please, Ms Cushing,” Mary interrupted briskly. “We’ve had a very long day, and we’d really like to clean up a bit.”

Ms Cushing seemed to come to herself abruptly. “Oh, of course! You poor dears, stuck in a car with a man for how long? You must be exhausted,” she exclaimed in sympathy, and bustled about getting keys and paperwork ready. Molly signed the lease reluctantly and accepted the keys to her new home. Ms Cushing, it seemed, would be an interesting landlady indeed. Suddenly she missed Mrs Hudson with a fervent intensity.

The flat was in a sorry state. The moving men, apparently in a great hurry to escape Ms Cushing, had set all of Molly’s things in a heap in the middle of the sitting room, and the furniture was setting about in no particular order whatever. At least, Molly noted, they had managed to get the bed and dresser into the bedroom and dining table and chairs into the dining room. With a sigh, she silently surveyed the mess, unsure of where to begin.

“Ms Cushing frightening the moving men away, I see,” Mary remarked cheerfully. “Don’t worry, dear, Greg and I will not leave you until this is all sorted. We can take extra time off if need be. I’ll call him later, after his meeting, and see if he can give us some help tonight.”

“Ms Cushing will not be happy to see him again. Oh, Mary, I don’t know that I’ve ever met such a . . . . such a . . . .”

“Misandrist? Me either,” Mary agreed. “But don’t worry, dear. You’ll be treated like royalty. She’s very impressed with you! Even if you meet a chap you’d like to have over, she won’t dare say a word against it for fear of losing you!”

A loud knock on the street entrance started them, and Ms Cushing’s aggrieved voice reached up the stairway. Mary went to the front window and looked down. “The postman has had the effrontery to deliver a package at the door,” she remarked. “How he must dread making deliveries here!”

A moment later, they heard Ms Cushing give a little, hysterical scream, followed by a dull thud. Grabbing her medical bag, Mary charged out the door and down the stairs, Molly close on her heals.

“Ms Cushing, are you all right?” Mary exclaimed, concerned. “You’re white as a sheet!” 

The middle-aged misandrist was standing in the entryway in a daze, deathly pale; she turned unseeing eyes towards the girls as they approached, her mouth working but no words forthcoming. Then pointing to the package she had let drop to the floor, she managed to squeak, “Ears!”

“Ears?” Molly puzzled, and approached the parcel as one might edge towards an explosive. She looked into the box without touching it. 

Looking up at Mary, who was now helping the shocked landlady to a chair with strong but gentle hands, Molly said calmly, “She’s right. It’s a pair of ears. Human, severed ears.”

“Well, that’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Mary said.


	2. An Eerie Occurance

Ms Cushing recovered her composure, sitting in the chair in the entryway and breathing deeply as the young doctor instructed. “Don’t let her touch anything,” Mary reminded Molly and went to fetch the landlady a glass of water. The pathologist helped herself to her friend’s medical bag, rummaging for a pair of surgical gloves and snapping them on smartly, well aware of her new landlady’s eyes watching her every movement. She picked up one of the ears from the boxful of rough salt with practiced hands.

“What are you doing?” Ms Cushing asked sharply, her shock giving way to anger. “Just throw the filthy things away! I’ve apparently been made victim of a peculiarly revolting practical joke. I won’t have those things in my house, Dr Hooper! Take them away at once!”

Molly was carefully and minutely examining the evidence in question, both the ears and the salt they had been packed in. By the time Mary returned with the water, she had drawn a number of conclusions, and Ms Cushing had worked herself up into a towering rage.

"It’s those boys—those three boys!” Ms Cushing hissed furiously. “This is what I get for allowing MEN into my home! Filthy, disgusting, vengeful, outrageous. . . .”

“Ms Cushing, you must calm yourself,” Mary soothed gently, holding the water glass to the woman’s lips. “You’ve had a nasty shock and you’re working yourself into a dreadful state. I put the kettle on the boil—I’ll make you a nice cuppa in a moment and you’ll feel better. Now take some deep breaths and try to relax.”

Ms Cushing took a few nearly-deep breaths impatiently. “I’m quite calm, Dr Watson,” she said tartly at last. “But I have every reason to be outraged. I let the flat upstairs to three medical students from your own division, Dr Hooper—pathology students—at the request of the college—quite against my better judgement. And as I feared I would, I was obliged to get rid of them on account of their noisy and irregular habits. The mess! The smell! And the loud carousing at all ungodly hours of the day and night! It was a nightmare! I threw them out three months ago.”

“Dear, dear,” Mary murmured comfortingly, giving Molly a wide-eyed, knowing look of amused frustration. “I’m sure they were all horribly, um, masculine.” She helped the woman to her feet and led her into the office, hoping, Molly supposed, that shutting the odious package from view would help.

Lost in her indignation, Ms Cushing ranted on. “I suppose they felt they owed me a grudge, and hope to frighten me by sending these . . . relics of the dissecting-rooms You’ll notice the package was sent from Belfast—I’m quite certain one of the nasty creatures came from the north of Ireland—to the best of my belief from Belfast. Well, it will take a good deal more than a pathetic pair of ears to scare me!”

“You must admit, it is a bit . . . eerie, though,” Mary commented with a perfectly straight face. Molly bit her lip firmly. It was utterly inappropriate to laugh.

At just that moment, the kettle in the kitchen began to sing. Mary bustled from the room, terrifying Molly by leaving her alone with the furious landlady, and soon returned with a tray. Somehow, just watching the young woman pour out tea for them in her placid, tranquil way caused both Ms Cushing and Molly herself to quiet their minds and hearts. Molly considered, not for the first time, that her friend was a wizard of some sort, able to get people to do what she wanted without any visible effort.

“There now,” Mary pronounced, after a few moments of silent sipping. “We all feel more like ourselves, don’t we? So now we may decide what is the best course of action to take in this matter. Unfortunately, the first thing we must do is call the police.”

Ms Cushing huffed irately. “As soon as we summon the police, the press will follow. I am a quiet woman and have lived an exemplary life. It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the police in my house. Surely we can just get rid of the things quietly and tell no one about them.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Ms Cushing,” Mary replied soothingly. “There are laws about sending body parts in the post, whether it was meant as a joke, or revenge, or something more sinister. And there are laws concerning the disposal of body parts. It would be unconscionable of us, as law-abiding citizens, not to report this and allow the authorities to take charge of the . . . evidence.”

Ms Cushing shuddered in horror. “The idea of . . . of a lot of great, galumphing policemen tramping through my home. I can’t bear it,” she sighed. “I know you are right, Dr Watson, but I wish there could be another way. Can’t you just take the horrid things to work with you, Dr Hooper, and dispose of them as you do with other things you dissect in your labs?”

Molly drew a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Ms Cushing, but Mary is right. We must obey the law, even if this were just a joke by some nasty boys. But this is not a practical joke, I’m afraid. That much is quite clear.”

Mary’s eyes took on a gleam—an expression that always alarmed Molly more than just about anything else in the world. “Are you certain?” she asked, looking more thrilled than anyone ever should about severed ears and what they might portend. 

The young pathologist took a deep breath and began to speak. “I’ve examined them closely, and the evidence is strongly against it. Bodies in dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a medical student had done it. Again, Formalin, or even saline, would be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medical mind, certainly not rough salt. And the fact that they were packed in a cigar box rather than a sealed container. . . . There is every indication that a serious crime has been committed.”

Ms Cushing gave a cry of indignation. “I don’t believe it! I’ve led a most quiet and respectable life here for the last twenty years. Why on earth should any criminal send me the proofs of his guilt?”

“That is the problem which we have to solve,” Mary declared. Molly couldn’t help the little desperate, choking sound she made at that declaration, and Mary’s eyes twinkled at her. “I meant, that is the problem the police must solve,” the young doctor amended, a bit too cheerfully. 

This statement caused another rush of indignant protests from Ms Cushing, who simply refused to consider speaking to the police—even if, as Mary suggested, they could ask to have only female police officers on the premises. Apparently, Ms Cushing’s sensibilities were not only offended by all men in general, but also by women who accepted what she considered to be menial and demeaning jobs.

As Mary tried to encourage Ms Cushing into compliance with the law, Molly, sitting beside the distressed landlady with a close view of her profile, became transfixed by the sight of the woman’s left ear. As she studied it, her breathing tightened with horror—she was beginning to feel she knew something of what was going on, and it was certainly not a joke.

“Put yourself into our hands, Ms Cushing,” Mary was saying in her most soothing tone. “The friend who dropped us off here is a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, and he is at this very moment in a meeting with his friend, the Chief Superintendent of St. Leonard’s Police Office. Let us call them—I know Molly and I can convince them to take care of this matter with a minimum of inconvenience to you.”

Ms Cushing, with great distaste, reluctantly agreed to this plan, and Mary and Molly stepped out of the office into the entryway, closing the door behind them.

“Mary, have you looked at these ears?” Molly demanded quietly as soon as they were alone.

“I haven’t had a chance,” Mary admitted and knelt by the box which was still lying on the floor exactly as Ms Cushing had dropped it. “Hmm. Not a pair. Two left ears. One is a woman’s, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring. The other is a man’s, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. I presume a double murder has been committed, for these two people are certainly dead or we should have heard their story before now—a madman couldn’t slice off the ears of two living people unnoticed. Can’t you just imagine the press release?”

“Yes, yes, but Mary. . . . the woman’s ear. . . .” Molly stumbled over her words in her agitation. “The woman’s ear . . . it looks just like Ms Cushing’s!”

Mary stared into the box intensely, her expression sobering. “Oh my lord, you’re right!” she gasped, horrified. “Oh, Molly! You realize what this means?”

Molly nodded. “Call Greg, Mary. Call him now!”


	3. All Ears

St. Leonard’s Police Office was quite nearby, and so Greg arrived within fifteen minutes of Mary’s call. The very sight of him filled Molly with relief; he represented sanity in an increasingly insane situation. With him was a tall, well-built man of about fifty-five with hair dyed a determined black and a hearty, over-bearing attitude.

“Dr Mary Watson, Dr Molly Hooper, this is Chief Superintendent Mark Jemison,” Greg began when the girls opened the front door to them and urged them inside. “A forensics team is on the way, as well.”

“Very glad to meet you,” Chief Superintendent Jemison said with a wolfish smile and a roving eye. “Greg, you told me you had friends traveling with you, but you neglected to mention that they were such beautiful young ladies. You sly, old fox. Too bad a crime had to be committed to prevent you from keeping such charming company to yourself. They look a bit much for old rogue like you to handle alone.” Although his words might have been interpreted as harmless flirtation, his tone insinuated a great deal more.

Mary and Molly looked at each other, hardly knowing whether to be angry or amused. Greg frowned, looking embarrassed for his friends and annoyed by the Chief Superintendent. “I suppose I am so impressed by their intellect and professional skill, I never noticed,” he replied tersely, a note of warning in his voice.

“Perhaps we could just get on with the work,” Mary suggested smartly. “Dr Hooper and I have been examining the evidence and have reached a number of conclusions which you may find helpful.”

Jemison’s smile grew more patronizing. “Well, I appreciate your efforts, young lady, but I have a crack forensics team on the way. We will wait for the professionals’ opinion, my dear.”

Greg’s darkened face registered impatience. “Mark, as I’ve told you, these two doctors have been working on crime scenes for years. They are experienced professionals and know what they’re doing; and they’ve had at least a half hour’s head start. You should listen to what they have to say. It will save you time and man-power in the end.”

This earned a condescending laugh. “I already have the situation completely under control, Greg. As you know, I had Ms Cushing’s records pulled up immediately and we know she recently filed a series of complaints against three young pathology students who were letting a flat from her. This is obviously a prank, and I’ve already sent out a team to ferret out these young men and bring them in for questioning.”

“It’s true, Ms Cushing did evict three young students a few months ago, but this is clearly not a joke, Chief Superintendent,” Mary told him earnestly. “Molly, tell him what you’ve discovered.”

Trembling with nerves, Molly nevertheless managed to repeat the report she’d given to Mary earlier concerning the lack of preservative fluids, the use of a blunt instrument rather than a scalpel, and the container itself. As she spoke, the forensics team arrived, two middle-aged men with kits in hand and a younger man with a camera. They listened raptly to Molly’s deductions with respectful looks. “There is no practical joke here, but a serious crime,” she concluded. “A double murder has been committed.”

“Nice work,” one of the forensics specialists murmured admiringly.

But Jemison was doubtful. “I can see why you might believe that, my dear, but I would prefer to have my men look into it themselves,” he said obstinately. “Women always want to sensationalize. I’m sure this is a simple matter of a school-boy prank and will all be cleared up in a few hours.”

Greatly annoyed, Greg rolled his eyes eloquently. “Dr Watson, have you any observations to add?” he encouraged.

Mary beamed at him. “Yes, actually, I have had a few minutes to look over the packaging and have drawn a few conclusions.” It was now Jemison’s turn to roll his eyes, but Mary ignored him and soldiered on. 

“The box was wrapped in brown paper with a distinct smell of the sea. The address is printed in rather straggling characters: Ms S. Cushing, Little France Crescent, Edinburgh. Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a bulk order company pen, and with very inferior ink. The word Edinburgh has been originally spelt the way it’s pronounced, which has been changed to the correct spelling. The parcel was directed by a man—the printing is distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with the city of Edinburgh. So much for the paper! The box is of a most expensive brand of cigars, nothing distinctive about it. It is filled with rough salt of the quality used for making ice cream. The dichotomy is obvious—how does a man who does not know to spell the name of the capital of Scotland without help, and who must use pens given away free for advertising, come across a box of the most expensive cigars available and then fill it with the most inexpensive preservative possible? We are looking for a man of straightened means who lives by and perhaps has a job having to do with the sea, which brings him in contact with persons of wealth.”

The looks of awe on the forensics teams’ faces were priceless, and even Greg’s jaw dropped a bit. Molly flushed with pride for her friend, who had obviously been taking lessons from a certain consulting detective.

“That was amazing,” the photographer said under his breath, and his colleagues nodded, dazed.

Jemison, however, remained unimpressed. "We'll see about that, young lady,” he stated importantly. “My team here will check into these details for themselves. In the meantime, I must take Ms Cushing’s statement. I assume she is in her office?” Without waiting for an answer, he knocked on the door, called out “Chief Superintendent Jemison here,” and then entered immediately before the landlady had even managed to get out of her chair.

“I suppose you’ve come about those dreadful things,” said she, as Jemison entered. “I wish that you would take them away altogether.”

“So I shall, Ms Cushing,” the Chief Superintendent said importantly. “But first, I must ask you some questions. Please understand, my dear lady, that normally I do not involve myself in casework—that is for my inspectors to take care of. But I have made an exception in this case since my friend from Scotland Yard is involved.” He closed the office door behind him, but not before they heard Ms Cushing exclaim irritably:

“What is the use of asking me questions, when I tell you I know nothing whatever about it?” She was evidently not as impressed with Jemison’s personal involvement as he might have liked.

"Bastard,” Greg muttered bitterly, under his breath so that the forensics team might not overhear. “He was always a bit insensitive and rather . . . old-fashioned in his views on women, but now—the ham-handed Neanderthal. . . .”

But Molly and Mary were more concerned with the case than with the Chief Superintendent. “He left before we finished our report!” Molly cried; and, “We hadn’t told him the worst bit!” Mary exclaimed at the same moment.

Greg frowned. “Well, then, gimme,” he prompted.

Molly took a deep breath and explained quickly, “I examined the female ear in the box, and then I happened to be sitting quite near Ms Cushing and noticed that her left ear is identical to the severed one.”

She was gratified to note that Greg understood the import of her revelation immediately, as evidenced by a startled look and a sharp, surprised curse. “Bloody hell. It’s a good thing you didn’t tell him this before he closeted himself with Ms Cushing. Can you imagine how he’d just blurt out the news and give the poor woman a coronary?” he observed sympathetically.

Molly’s statement had piqued the interest of the forensics team, who had been busy measuring and evaluating and photographing the evidence. Now they all stopped working and one of the older men pulled out a recording device. “Dr Hooper, can you repeat your findings for the record, and explain your process? You would be saving us a great deal of time.”

“Well, all right, erm . . . ,” Molly stuttered a bit. “Um, you must be aware, as forensics experts, that there is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear,” she began, using her lecturing tone in order to quell her nerves. “Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive, and differs from all other ones. I examined the ears in the box and carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Then, when looking at Ms Cushing, I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials, it was the same ear. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation, and probably a very close one. I would guess a sister or a first cousin.”

The forensics team were suitably impressed. “Thank you, Dr Hooper,” the one who seemed to be in charge said earnestly. “We will use your evidence to guide our DNA testing—you’ve undoubtedly saved us weeks if not months of guesswork in identifying the victims.” The other two men also made gushing comments regarding her insightful deductions.

Molly’s little lecture had lasted only a minute, but in that time Greg and Mary had disappeared. She fled upstairs, away from the unwelcome attentions of her new admirers, and as she entered the open door of her flat she could hear her friends talking in the kitchen.

“A misandrist and a chauvinist. If it weren’t such a grim situation, it would be very funny to hear them going at it in there,” Mary was saying, her good humour intact.

“I give them five more minutes before Ms Cushing threatens to sue Jemison for harassment,” Greg growled in dour tones as Molly approached the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Mary, for bringing him into this. If he hadn’t been with me when I took your call, he’d have just sent his team and would never have involved himself personally. John will not think well of me for not giving him what he deserved for his sexist remarks.”

Mary chuckled warmly. “I believe it’s against the law to chin a Chief Superintendent. Don’t be sorry, Papa, we’re just grateful you’re here.”

Molly froze. In the six years she’d known the two friends, she had never heard Mary call Greg by that nickname before. And yet, she used it with a natural, unself-conscious familiarity that told Molly it was an old habit, well-worn with affectionate use. This was obviously a private conversation, and Molly turned to leave them alone, but then realized she would be trapped in the entryway with the fawning forensics team, perhaps even forced to talk to them. She stood in the doorway uncertainly.

“Jemison always chafed at being just one of many at the Yard,” Greg was grumbling. “It’s not been good for his massive ego to be a big frog in this smaller pond.”

“Believe me, Papa, Molly and I have both endured much worse!” Mary laughed. “Don’t be upset. We’ll work round him.”

This IS my flat, Molly thought, squirming with embarrassment. I’ll just walk in and they’ll know I’m here. Or, I could go to my bedroom and . . . sit on my bed. She didn’t move.

“At any rate, I appreciate your standing up for us,” Mary continued cheerfully. “Even though you had to tell a great, whopping lie.”

“I never lie!” Greg objected, matching her teasing tone. “I might stretch the truth a bit. . . .”

“Now, I know you didn’t lie about not noticing MY ravishing beauty,” Mary went on relentlessly. “You look at me and see an incredibly precocious child. . . .”

“I don’t!”

“You do! Or if you don’t, try not to ruin the illusion for me. No one ever cared for the child I was until you came along, and I treasure that retro-actively. But as for Molly. . . . Well, I’ve seen how you’ve been looking at her lately. Ever since the Tom fiasco, actually, but especially since she announced she was moving. And it isn’t only her intellect you’re admiring.”

“Shut up, young lady,” he protested affectionately. “Or I’ll send you to your room without your tea.”

“I don’t have a room,” Mary sassed back smartly. Molly’s hands crept up to her face. She knew she ought to leave, but her legs were paralyzed with the shock. 

"If it's age difference you're worried about, you know she's closer to John's age than mine. Fifteen or sixteen years is nothing—and it will certainly stop you constantly calling John a cradle-robber," Mary teased.

"No, that doesn't matter,” Greg sighed. “Anyway, she’s never had eyes for anyone but Sherlock. And she would be damned good for him, if he could see what was in front of his nose. I would never want to get in the way of that—he needs her more than I do.”

“You’re a good man, Papa,” Mary said softly. “And a better friend than he’ll ever know. But this ‘out of sight, out of mind’ thing can work both ways, you know. This move to Edinburgh, with a grand, important job, could give Molly a new perspective on things.”

“Well, we’ll see,” he deflected.

“And you’ve your great friend, Mark Jemison, as a perfect excuse to visit Edinburgh quite often,” Mary added, chortling.

“I’ll visit hell first!” Greg said firmly, but he was also chuckling. “You might be right, Mary. Molly’s life has changed almost entirely with this move: new job, new home. But one thing hasn’t changed a bit.”

“What’s that, then?”

“Whenever you two are together, trouble follows! Crime-magnets, the both of you!”

Molly, released to act by their light-hearted laughter, fled down the stairs, her friends’ words burning in her ears.


	4. Led by the Ear

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the office door was flung open with a vengeance and Jemison was jettisoned through it by an infuriated Ms Cushing. Molly noted that it had been exactly five minutes since Greg had made his prediction; understanding how people work was one of his great strengths.

“Get out of my house,” Ms Cushing was saying, her voice low but quavering with emotion. “And take that . . . that disgusting detritus with you. I’ll ring my solicitor in the morning. I’ll report you to the highest authority! Insolent!” And she shut her office door firmly in the Chief Superintendent’s face. The noise summoned Mary and Greg, who clattered down the stairs to join the others.

Gathering his shattered dignity, Jemison straightened himself to his full height and ordered his men to hurry and finish processing the crime scene. “That woman obviously knows nothing,” he concluded. “I’ll be back at the office, MacFee. You and your men report to me there.” And he prepared to walk out the front door.

“But, sir,” the main forensics specialist, who was apparently called MacFee, said nervously. “The . . . the evidence indicates that the female victim must be a near relative of Ms Cushing.” He looked sheepishly at Molly, who shrugged fatalistically and briefly nodded her assent. What did it matter who received credit for deducing the evidence? The main thing was to solve the case. “It would be helpful if we were to find out the names and addresses of any possible sisters or other close relations.”

“What evidence?” Jemison demanded, and the man explained in Molly’s own words exactly how the conclusion had been reached.

“He could at least mention your name,” Greg murmured in Molly’s ear, startling her and causing her to blush, much to her embarrassment. 

“It’s more expedient this way,” she whispered back. “I don’t mind.”

Jemison snarled impatiently, “That bi-- . . . woman is entirely unreasonable. She won’t talk to me.”

“Don’t take it personally, Chief Superintendent,” Mary soothed in her most sympathetic voice. “She is determinedly disdainful of all men. She won’t talk to any of you.”

“I’ll put some personnel onto looking up birth and marriage records this evening,” the Chief Superintendent said decisively. “It shouldn’t take long to trace her relations. I’ll send officers to check up on the findings in the morning.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mary agreed with far too much enthusiasm. “And I can see what you’re thinking--that, of course, it will take more than research to get the story behind this crime—the reason behind sending a respectable, middle-aged businesswoman the severed ear of her own relative! And as you know, once you have the story, you’ll have your motive.”

“Of course,” Jemison agreed automatically, looking a bit dazed. “I was about to say that.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find the perfect person for this job. Let me see if I’m clever enough to follow your procedure. I’m guessing that whomever you send to talk with the man-hating Ms Cushing would, naturally, have to be female,” Mary mused thoughtfully. “And not a police officer—Ms Cushing has no respect for police officers, male or female. It would have to be someone she knows and trusts, too, or she’d never open up. And it would help if it were someone who could gently guide the conversation without alarming Ms Cushing. Sort of the way I help my patients understand their course of treatment and convince them to do what’s good for them, even if they are reluctant about it.”

Light bulbs switched on in Jemison’s eyes. “Dr Watson, I believe you are just the one for this job,” he declared. “You’re female, you’re on the spot, you have a rapport with the old biddy, and you have way with you that makes you seem trustworthy. You find out what you can from the annoying old hen and send it along with my men. Give her the recorder,” he instructed his officers.

“You’ve made a good choice, Mark,” Greg said heartily with a perfectly straight face. “I’ve seen Dr Watson here manipulate people into doing pretty much anything she wants them to, and they never even notice. In fact, they often believe it was their own idea.” Molly bit her lip and did not dare to look at anyone in the room for fear of losing control of her mirth.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” the Chief Superintendent said grandly. “Are you coming, Greg? The little woman’s waiting tea for us.”

“Um, no, thanks, Mark, another time perhaps,” Greg replied carefully. “I have other plans for the evening. Please give my regards to your lovely wife. I’ll see you at the training tomorrow, nine sharp!”

Jemison hesitated, looking from Greg to the two doctors and then back to Greg. “I see,” he gave an insinuating smile. “You old fox! Tomorrow, then!” And he left at last.

“All right, you lads,” Greg addressed the forensics team. “Dr Hooper’s done you a good turn today, and she deserves a favour in return. Clear this up, and then come upstairs. We have furniture to move and boxes to unpack.”

Molly gaped at Mary, who grinned mischievously. “I told you we wouldn’t leave you here without seeing your flat sorted.”

“Mary showed me the mess your moving men left up there,” Greg confirmed, smiling warmly. “I have to teach training classes all day tomorrow, but I’m at your disposal tonight, as long as you like.”

She felt overwhelmed by their friendship. “Thank you. I really . . . . I mean, I just . . . .” she stammered.

“I know,” Mary assured her. “Now, let’s let the men do the heavy lifting, and you and I will raid Ms Cushing’s kitchen. She’ll need a bit of refreshment after her ordeal.”

000  
Platter of biscuits and sandwiches in hand, Mary knocked on the office door a short time later. Molly, carrying the tea tray she had retrieved from the office and replenished, followed her friend inside. Ms Cushing was sitting just where they had left her, her head in her hands.

“I am weary of questions,” cried Ms Cushing impatiently.

“Then we won’t ask you any!” Mary said brightly. “I’ve no doubt you’ve been annoyed more than enough already over this business. We’ve brought tea. We thought you might need it.”

Ms Cushing raised her head. “Oh, thank you, my dears. You are the very souls of kindness. You’ll join me, won’t you? You’re just the company I need after that great gorilla of a Chief Superintendent! He would not listen to me! I said to him several times: I am convinced that this matter is a mistake, and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. But he simply laughed at me. I have not an enemy in the world as far as I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”

Mary was staring at a picture on a table under the window as the landlady spoke. “I am coming to be of the same opinion, Ms Cushing,” she assured her. “I think that is more than probable. Let’s not speak of it anymore. We’ll enjoy our tea and pretend there are no such things as severed ears in the world.”

Molly choked on a bit of biscuit.

"That’s a lovely portrait of you there; and those must be your sisters,” Mary went on. 

“Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary.”

“Lovely name, Mary,” Mary grinned impishly. “One of my favourites.” Molly was amazed to see that her friend was bringing a smile to the dour woman’s face. “You’re so lucky to have family. I’m an orphan, myself. No parents, no siblings.”

“You might not feel so lucky if you had the sisters I have,” Ms Cushing said glumly.

 

“Not so charming as yourself, then, your sisters?” Mary dimpled beguilingly.

“Well now, my youngest sister, Mary, is a dear, the poor thing. Perhaps a sweet nature comes with the name,” Ms Cushing smiled indulgently. “But as for Sarah . . . I don’t want to say a word against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was Sarah. She lived here with me for the better part of this past year, until about two months ago, when we had to part. Such a temper she has! We haven’t spoken since.” The landlady shook her head and took a soothing sip of her tea.

Molly, feeling awkward at having had no part of the conversation so far, looked around the room desperately for an idea to help things along. Her eyes lit on a photograph on the mantel shelf, behind Mary’s head. “The wedding picture there . . . it’s lovely. Is that your sister Mary or is it Sarah?”

“Neither Sarah nor I have ever married, thank god,” Ms Cushing replied, making a sour face. “That is our poor Mary and her husband Jim Browner. She met him on a luxury cruise—he was a steward on a cruise ship then, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to leave her for so long, and he got a job working on a Stena Line ferry in Cairnryan; they live in Stranraer near there. Sweet as a child, he was, and charming, with a sunny disposition. Swept our poor Mary quite off her feet. He reminded me a good deal of our father.”

“Sounds so romantic,” Molly ventured. “But you’ve . . . you called her ‘poor Mary’ a number of times now. I’m sensing a tragedy rather than a ‘happily ever after’.”

Ms Cushing looked grim. “You sense quite right. Jim Browning is drinker, just as our father was, may he rot in the hot place. One little drink would send him stark, staring mad. It was a bad day that ever he took a glass in his hand again. First he quarrelled with me, then he quarrelled with Sarah, and now I’ve not heard from our Mary in over a year. I’ve no idea how things are going with her.”

Mary grimaced in sympathy. “My father was a drinker as well,” she volunteered. “I don’t remember him well—I was only six when he sent me away. But I do recall his coming home from work and just sitting in his armchair every evening, bottle in hand, and growling at me whenever I came near. I suppose it was your brother-in-law’s drinking that caused the quarrel between him and you and your sister Sarah.”

“It is the only thing we agree about, Sarah and I,” Ms Cushing declared stoutly. “They were the best of friends at one time, Sarah and Mary and Jim. She went to Stranraer to live near them soon after they were married. And now she has no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she lived here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and had given her a bit of his mind.”

“It’s so sad when families are pulled apart by addictions,” Mary murmured comfortingly.

“All men are monsters,” Ms Cushing pronounced. “The world would be far better off without the lot of them.”

000

“There’s enough here to issue a warrant,” Mary said, handing the recorder over to Forensics Officer MacFee. “A bit more digging needs doing to get enough evidence to take this to trial, but the path to take from here is clear.”

The forensics team gushed gratitude, but Molly’s attention was diverted from crimes and severed ears by the sight of her new flat. The furniture had all been put into place, the books set upon the shelves, the dishes unwrapped and stored in the cupboards, the pictures leant against the walls ready to be hung, and her suitcases placed in her bedroom ready to be unpacked. All the empty cartons had been neatly broken down and placed on the landing to be taken out to the bins. And boxes of Indian take-away were spread out enticingly over the dining room table. The four men, weary from their labours, were tucking into the food with a vengeance.

“It looks . . . it looks like home,” she said gratefully. “Oh, it’s wonderful! Thank you ever so much!” Poor Ms Cushing, she thought, had had bad luck in the men she’d had in her life. If she knew men like Greg Lestrade, she might change her mind about them all being monsters.

“I’m starving!” Mary exclaimed at the sight of the food. “Manipulating people is hungry work. Let’s eat!”


	5. If Anyone Has Ears, Let Him Hear

“Jemison has done absolutely nothing on this case,” Greg informed them over lunch at a local pub next day. He had spent the morning at St. Leonard’s Police Office, teaching trainees in interrogation techniques. Mary had spent the morning putting Molly’s clothes on hangers and in drawers and doing the shopping to fill the empty larder. Molly herself had spent the morning being introduced to her new colleagues at the Medical College and going through orientation. Greg was tired and frustrated. Mary was tired and cheery. Molly was tired, too, but feeling strangely excited about her new position and all the opportunities it afforded. It was just the sort of thing she’d always wanted to do.

“His officers who questioned the three med students came up with nothing to hang a case on, as you might have predicted; and he claims your interview with Ms Cushing was a complete waste of time,” Greg went on. “Even when I explained the clear implications, he refused to so much as make a phone call to the Cairnryan police. So I told him that if he wouldn’t follow up on the interview, I would damned well do it myself.”

“Can you do that?” Molly asked, wide-eyed. 

“He invited me to,” Greg smirked. “He thinks I’m wasting my time, but since he asked for my help, I can do whatever I think best. And he can’t protest. He wants to keep his contacts with the Yard in good standing, and that means cooperating with me.”

Mary leaned forward eagerly. “So have you had time to do anything yet? I know you’ve been busy teaching all morning.”

“I’ve had a few free minutes here and there,” he smiled. “I contacted the police in Cairnryan, and they found where the Browners live and checked up on them. So here’s what they discovered: Mary Browner has not lived with her husband in nearly a year. The neighbours claim she’s run off with a chap called Alec Fairbairn, who works in a commercial fishing fleet.”

“The second ear. So it’s just as we thought: she had left Browner and was with someone else,” Mary nodded. “If she’d left him and was alone, she would have had no reason for never contacting her sister. She must have felt that Susan Cushing would have disapproved of the new man as much as she did the old one.”

“So then I had someone trace Alec Fairbairn,” Greg continued. “He and his girlfriend, according to neighbours, left three days ago for a holiday in Belfast. They were quite excited about it, they say.”

“Belfast!” Molly cried. “The place and timing are perfect. The ears were posted from there just three days ago. And Jim Browner works on a ferry that goes to Belfast from Cairnryan.”

“Exactly,” Greg smiled grimly. “And so, I had someone check the manifests of the ferries leaving Cairnryan and landing in Belfast three days ago. The couple were booked on one, in fact had a private suite, but according to the records never checked in. They missed the boat.”

Mary looked thoughtful. “That can’t be right. There’s some mistake!”

Greg looked triumphant. “I thought so, too, so I called Stena Lines myself and asked some questions. Whom do you think was the person in charge of checking in the passengers that day?”

“Oh! Perfect!” Mary exclaimed. Molly could see the excitement of the chase in her friend’s eyes. “Browner could have killed them in their private suite after they put out to sea. Since they had booked it in advance, there would be little chance of anyone else going in it before they arrived in Belfast. I wonder if he knew they were going to be on the ferry that day and had this all planned, or if he just decided to kill them in a sudden fit of jealous rage when he saw them? And what did he do with the bodies? He couldn’t have just carried them to the rail and dumped them overboard without being seen.”

Greg had an answer for that, too, “Coincidentally, the ferry had engine trouble just as it put into port in Belfast and had to be worked on overnight. Next day, it was discovered that one of the lifeboats had disappeared. They are still searching for it,” Greg concluded. “So apparently, Jim Browner killed his wife and her new boyfriend, hid the bodies and their luggage until they put into port, sabotaged the engines, and then sneaked them and the luggage into the lifeboat under cover of night and took them out to sea to dispose of them. He was familiar enough with the ship’s security that he would be able to avoid being found out.”

Molly was puzzled. “But, then, why the ears? I mean, why advertise the murder by posting the ears? If he hadn’t done that, no one would even know a murder had been done. The couple would have just disappeared and no one would ever find out what happened to them.”

“That’s the only bit of information I couldn’t discover,” Greg admitted. “But I pulled enough together to get a warrant for his arrest. We’re having him brought here for questioning as soon as may be.”

“That’s an amazing morning’s work,” Molly told him, impressed. “You took what little we knew and put the whole case together in such a short time.” She thought of a comment Sherlock had once made concerning the Detective Inspector: Although he is absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as a bull-dog when he once understands what he has to do; and indeed it is just his tenacity which has brought him to the top at Scotland Yard. Molly often wished Sherlock would not so constantly underestimate his friend. Greg Lestrade was brilliant at what he did, and Sherlock would not function nearly so well without him.

“Well,” Greg said honestly, “You two did the all the foundational work. I just followed up on your clues.”

“I’m sure Sherlock would have just counted this case as a three—I can just hear him: I chose to be only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in their solution,” Mary chuckled. “But I think we’re all brilliant! I hope we’re still here to see Browner arrested.”

Greg had to return to St. Leonard’s for more training classes, but the girls had the afternoon free and lingered in the pub.

“I’m getting a piece of pie,” Mary declared. “And I’m getting you one, too. We’ll celebrate a job well done.” She went up to the bar to order.

Molly watched her friend chat with the pub owner and frowned, deep in thought. There were many things she admired about Mary Watson, but the one trait she envied most was the young doctor’s supreme self-confidence. Mary was not afraid to take chances and to act on her convictions. In fact, the rumour was that Mary, after dating John a few weeks, apparently decided he was not moving the relationship along quickly enough and, grabbing him by the coat lapels, demanded to be kissed.

Molly blushed as she tried to picture herself being so bold. How would Sherlock “I’m married to my work” Holmes react if Molly could bring herself to make such a demand? He would be utterly bewildered, she was sure, and would probably be rude about it. After all, when Mary made her move on John, they were at least on an actual date at the time.

And John had never made it secret, from the very first, that he completely adored his Mary. Molly, sitting with Greg on her sofa last night drinking a last cup of tea after the forensics team had gone, had unabashedly watched Mary and John talking (flirting) over Skype and had felt. . . longing. She wanted what they had—and not just the romance, which was admittedly adorable to behold. John and Mary’s relationship was bedrocked in mutual respect and admiration and a deep, unshakeable friendship. They were each convinced that the other was singularly extraordinary. Molly knew what it was to believe another person to be extraordinary. But she wished she knew what it was like to know someone else felt the same about her.

And as she had been thinking such thoughts, she happened to turn and catch Greg watching her. He had turned his face away immediately, embarrassed. But not before she had caught a glimpse of an expression which had seen a million times. It was the same look John got in his eyes when looking at his Mary—as if she were the most precious, the most incredible thing he’d ever seen in his life. Molly grew red now just thinking of it. What could she do about the situation? She had not the courage to explore it.

Mary slipped back into her chair and deposited an enormous wedge of pie before Molly with a flourish. She immediately began digging into her own slice as if she hadn’t seen food in months. “Eat! It’s lovely!” she exclaimed. Mary Watson never did do anything by halves.

Molly nibbled at her pie. “Mary, may I ask you a personal question? I mean, a really, really personal question?”

“Of course,” her friend replied with her mouth full. She stopped shovelling pie into her mouth and gave Molly her full attention. “Anything you like.”

“You had . . . you had a hellish childhood,” the young pathologist began, plunging right in. “You ought to be, you know, riddled with self-doubt and . . . and. . . . “

“Insecurities?” Mary supplied, and Molly nodded.

“But your foremost characteristic is . . . is self-assurance and courage. How do you do it?” she finished in a rush.

Mary looked down at her plate thoughtfully. “I haven’t really given it a lot of thought. But I believe,” she closed her eyes a moment and opened them again. “I think it’s the voices I choose to listen to. I don’t mean I’m ‘hearing voices’,” she added quickly. “I mean, you know, things people say to you, especially when you’re a child, that stick with you. You hear them over and over in your head.”

Molly nodded. She often remembered her mother’s voice, saying to her that she was too timid and mousy and plain-looking, and would never amount to anything.

“I heard a lot of rubbish while I was growing up. My father always told me I was too much trouble and that I had worried my mother to death. My other care-takers and school teachers weren’t much better. I was a problem child. I was too wild, I was too headstrong, I was too clever for my own good. I was too much of a bother, I was a burden to be shifted to someone else. You’re right, I ought to have ended up in prison for something or other. In fact, Sherlock once told me I could have been a criminal mastermind if I’d just grown up to be what everyone kept telling me I’d be.” Mary smiled dreamily at the memory, and Molly wondered if she didn’t sometimes daydream about an awarding career in organized crime.

“So what did you do to be different?” she wanted to know.

“There were a few people who saw something else in—most of the time it was random strangers. One said I was clever; one said I was charming and worth looking-after; and one chap told me I could do anything I set my mind to if I would just keep trying and never give up. Sometimes people would take trouble over me, as if I was worth their time. I chose to listen to their voices, rather than the negative ones. I chose to be clever and charming and capable. All those people were not lying, you know. All of those things were in me, the good and the bad. I chose to practice the good things in me. But I might not have known those qualities were there, if random strangers hadn’t pointed them out to me.”

Molly took a thoughtful bite of pie; it was very sweet.

“Listen to my voice, Molly Hooper,” Mary demanded imperiously. “You are brilliant and beautiful and capable and kind. You can be confident in those things about yourself because I see those characteristics in you and I would never lie to you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Molly admitted. “I will try to choose to listen to you.”

Mary looked at her with fond satisfaction. “Good! At last! You know, I’ve been telling you those things for six years, and you have finally opened your ears and heard me!”

“Oh!” Molly cried, Mary’s statement striking a chord. “Oh, Mary! I know why! I mean, I know about the ears! Why the ears were important to the killer! Why they were posted!”

Mary’s face lit up with excitement, somehow understanding her friend’s garbled exclamations. “Oh! You’re right! Molly, you see, you ARE brilliant! The victims were listening to the wrong person—and that person had to be shown what happens when you say the wrong things.”

Molly felt a rush of adrenaline and for the first time understood why Mary (and Sherlock) became so indecently happy about crime-solving. “Let’s go see her! We can clear this all up this afternoon!”

Mary willingly deserted her pie. “Let’s go, partner!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To read more about the "voices" which helped make Mary the woman she is, watch for "Chance Meetings", coming soon!


	6. Lend Me Your Ears!

But they had abandoned their pie for nothing. Jemison refused to sanction their plan of going to interview Sarah Cushing, and without official permission, they feared any evidence they might collect would not be admissible in court. 

“What makes you looney birds think this woman has anything whatever to do this case?” he demanded, annoyed.

“In the first place, Chief Superintendent,” Mary began, with exaggerated patience and barely disguised sarcasm, “Susan’s sister’s name is Sarah, and her address had, until quite recently, been the same, so that it is quite obvious how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet, addressed to ‘S. Cushing’, was meant. And this Jim Browner, Mary Cushing’s husband, was at one time so intimate with Sarah that she had actually gone to live near them, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to address a packet to Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to her old address.”

Jemison huffed impatiently. “So the package was sent to the wrong sister. So what? We have the man in custody and he is presently being transported here. What difference does any of this make?”

Mary looked at Molly and sighed. She tried again: “It would be helpful in questioning the man if we knew why he bothered cutting off his victim’s left ears and sending them in the post! Look, we know he is an impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he gave up what must have been a superior job in order to be nearer his wife—and that he was subject to fits of hard drinking. His wife and another man have been both murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive for the crime. But why should proofs of the deed be sent to Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in Stranraer she had some hand in bringing about the events which led to the tragedy. In fact, she might even have instigated the crime herself. How can you know if you don’t question her?”

Jemison gave her a long look. “You two have taken up enough of my valuable time. Get lost or I’ll have you escorted from the building,” he said firmly.

Molly took her friend’s arm and pulled her away. “Come on. Let’s go listen in on Greg’s lecture. I have a fancy for listening to a rational man’s voice for a bit.”

000

“Tossed you out on your ears, did he?” Greg grinned after his training session was over. Standing in the corridor, they explained to him what they had wanted to do. “Hmm. I think I have the leverage to force his hand,” he said thoughtfully. He looked as if he would enjoy using a bit of leverage. The girls stood out of sight in the corridor as he entered the Chief Superintendent’s office, listening.

“Greg. What can I do for you?” Mark Jemison asked as his friend walked in the door. His wary attitude underlined the obvious rift in their relationship.

“Lend me your ears! Or rather, the cigar-boxful of ears,” Greg demanded cheerfully. 

“Those girls been after you, Lestrade?” Jemison sneered. “Got you wrapped around their fingers, don’t they?”

“Those medical professionals have been explaining their theory to me, yes,” Greg said calmly. “Mark, you aren’t an idiot. You must realize that these ladies have saved you from making a horrible mistake. You would have dismissed this case summarily as a harmless prank and would have let a double murder go unsolved and a cold-blooded murderer remain free. The least you can do is cooperate.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, Lestrade. You’re not at Scotland Yard right now,” Jemison growled. “Browner will be here in the morning, and you’re welcome to join me in questioning him. Until then, bugger off, you and your girlfriends.”

Greg’s face took on a thoughtful demeanour. “How’s your mother, Mark?” he asked sincerely. “She’s well, I hope?”

Jemison frowned. “She’s aggravating as ever.”

“Amazing person, she is. I’ve always admired her. One of the first women to become a Chief Superintendent, wasn’t she?” Greg smiled ingenuously. “In fact, rumour has it she pulled a lot of strings to get you this position. I’ve always enjoyed chatting with her whenever we’ve crossed paths. I might just look her up while I’m in town. Yeah, I think, since I’ve this evening free, I might just go drop in on her now.”

As Greg spoke, Jemison’s face grew purple and he swelled up like an indignant toad. “Oh, very well!” he burst out. “Go and sign the damned things out of the evidence room. Go do whatever the hell you want! Just go, and take your little slags with you!”

Walking together to the elevators, Mary and Molly each grasped one of Greg’s arms, laughing.

“Mark Jemison has a mother?” Mary chortled. “I thought he crawled out from under a rock!”

“One of the most formidable women I’ve ever met,” Greg informed them. “In her eighties now, but she could still kick Mark’s arse if she chose. I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.”

000

“Sarah Cushing?” Greg asked when the woman answered the door. She was the image of her older sister in almost every respect.

“Ms Cushing, my name is Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he held up his i.d. “And these are my colleagues, Dr Hooper and Dr Watson. Dr Hooper is presently living in one of your sister’s flats.”

“Well, good for her,” Sarah said sarcastically. “What do you want with me, then?”

“I have a package which I believe was addressed to you, but was delivered by mistake to your sister, Susan. I need to ask you a few questions concerning its contents,” Greg said smoothly. “May we come in?”

Sarah sighed. “It’s just like Susan to open someone else’s packages and then complain about it,” she grumbled. “I suppose you MUST come in.”

After they had settled in the sitting room, Mary held the paper wrapping out to their hostess. “Do you recognize the handwriting on this paper?” she asked gently.

Sarah examined it briefly. “It was sent from Belfast. I suppose it’s from my sister Mary. She and . . . well, she was going on holiday there. The date is consistent with the date she was to arrive. It isn’t her handwriting, though.” She looked at them suspiciously. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was written by that good-for-nothing husband of hers. But it couldn’t be. Why would he send ME a package?”

“Ms Cushing, you need to brace yourself,” Molly said softly. “I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

“I’m sorry to inform you, Ms Cushing, that your sister is dead and that we believe she has been murdered,” Greg told her quietly. “She and another person with her.”

Sarah Cushing turned quite white. “Oh, my god,” she whispered. “That drunken old fool. What has he done?” She gasped a laboured breath. “How do you know? What makes you think she’s been murdered?”

“The package,” Molly said with great compassion. “As you can see, it contains two human ears, one man’s and one woman’s. The woman’s ear has been identified as your sister Mary’s.”

“My god!” the poor woman cried in utter horror. “And he sent them to ME? Oh, that stupid, insane idiot! Can’t he do anything the way he’s meant to?”

The trio were utterly taken aback. “Ms Cushing,” Greg said carefully. “What was Jim Browner meant to do?”

Sarah Cushing’s demeanour had changed entirely. “Well, he was just supposed to kill them, of course! It was the perfect crime! No one would ever know what happened to them, but for this outrageous . . . . What was he thinking?” The woman was on a rant now and raved on and on about men who could not follow a simple line of thought.

“Ms Cushing,” Greg ventured, once the storm had subsided. “Are you confessing to inciting your brother-in-law to kill his wife and her boyfriend?”

She huffed. “I never said any such thing! I never told him to do anything. I merely informed him that they would be on his ferry and that they were laughing at him. I know him. I knew how he’d react.”

Sarah, now warming to her subject, babbled on. “Jim was meant to be mine, you see. Mary and I met him on a cruise. I saw him first! But Mary, that little minx, got her hooks into him, and then he had eyes for no one but her. I lived near them after they married, and I tried and tried to pry those two apart. At last, Jim took up the drink again, and I had something to work with. It was easy to turn Mary against him then, she was that disgusted with his drinking. I introduced her to Alec Fairbairn and it didn’t take much after that to convince her to leave Jim and take up with Alec. But Jim still would not have anything to do with me. So I left and came to live with Susan.”

“And then,” Mary prompted her.

“I came up with a marvellous idea! For their first anniversary of being together, I gave Mary and Alec a holiday to Ireland. I booked them a room at the finest hotel, made reservations for the finest restaurants, and bought tickets for them to cross over from Cairnryan on Jim’s own ship. ‘It’ll serve him right,’ I told them, ‘to see you two so happy together. Sweet vengeance, and then a lovely holiday after.’ It was a perfect plan! They never suspected a thing!”

Molly nodded, comprehension dawning. “So you . . . you contacted Jim and told him they would be on his ferry just for the purpose of . . . of rubbing his nose in it,” she said insightfully. “You . . . you mentioned that they would have a private suit, and would be entirely alone for over two hours.”

“He was always impetuous and hot-headed,” Sarah nodded. “It was a simple thing to arrange. After his precious Mary was gone, he would stop mooning over her and turn to me for comfort! It was a perfect plan! It’s incredible that he should have bollixed it up so completely!”

Greg pulled a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right, Ms Cushing. You’re under arrest for complicity to commit murder. Come along with me.”

Ms Cushing went, still spewing vitriol at her idiot brother-in-law. It was a long, ear-rattling ride back to the police office.


	7. A Full Hearing

Molly sat on her bed and watched through the bathroom door as her friend brushed her teeth with the exuberance with which Mary Watson did everything. She thought about Mary’s idea of choosing which voices to listen to and believe. Molly was sure that she had lived the last eight years of her life on the crumbs of praise that Sherlock occasionally let fall her way and had not even noticed the extravagant feast of encouraging words her other friends had offered her. She wondered if words she was not meant to overhear counted as well.

“Mary, I need to tell you something,” she burst out as her friend left the bathroom and headed to the sitting room, where her bed had been made up on the sofa. The young doctor immediately changed directions and plopped herself down on Molly’s bed.

“Two heart-to-hearts in one day! How exciting!” she exclaimed. “You can tell me anything you like; you know that.”

“I heard you and Greg yesterday, talking in my kitchen. You thought I was downstairs.” Molly could see the gears turning in Mary’s head as she tried to pick out one single conversation from all that had happened that busy day.

“Oh!” she cried at last. “I see!”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry. I didn’t know you were having a private conversation at first, but I couldn’t seem to stop listening once I realized, and then I thought I’d go back downstairs but the forensics gents were still there and I didn’t want to talk to them, and I thought I should make noise and let you know I was there but I couldn’t seem to move, and I thought I might go hide in the bedroom but I just. . . . didn’t and . . . . I’m sorry, but now we have to talk about it.” Molly’s confession poured out in a torrent and Mary’s eyes grew wider the longer she spoke.

“Oh, my, don’t feel badly about that,” Mary said reassuringly. “We were in YOUR kitchen, after all. But my dear, you’re quite freaked out over this, aren’t you? You think it’s strange or utterly bizarre?”

Molly shrugged apologetically. “It’s just . . . I’ve known him for so long, but I’ve . . . I’ve just never . . . thought, you know. . . .”

“You’ve never thought about Greg that particular way?” Mary finished for her. “Well, why would you, though? But it’s never really been a secret.”

“It’s . . . well, it’s a lot to think about,” Molly sighed. 

Mary blinked, puzzled. “Is it? I mean, I know it’s unusual, but it is really that strange? I mean, I never had a father—not a REAL father—and I was born on the very same day as Greg’s daughter. I AM nearly ten years younger than you, after all.” Mary tried to tease Molly into a less sober mood.

Now it was Molly’s turn to cry, “Oh!” as she realized they were talking at cross purposes. “No, no, I wasn’t talking about that!” Her words gushed out in her hurry to remedy the misunderstanding. “You can call Greg any name you like—that’s not my . . . that’s no one else’s business. And, really, I think it’s kind of . . . well, sort of sweet. I mean, I’m glad . . . it’s good that you . . . fill a hole in each other’s lives. No, I meant, the other thing . . . .”

Comprehension dawned in Mary’s face. “Ah! Yes, well, yeah. . . . it’s true you weren’t meant to hear that. . . .” She took a deep breath and plunged on. “I know it seems strange that he should just begin seeing you this way after knowing you for so many years. But Greg’s an honourable man. So long as he was still married, he would be faithful to his wife. And then, of course, it was obvious that your heart belonged to one of his best friends. He would never want to interfere with that.”

“But when I started seeing Tom . . . .” Molly said slowly. 

Mary nodded. “That seemed to indicate you were ready to move on from Sherlock. Left him free to . . . consider a different relationship with you. But he’ll never say anything, so long as he believes you might still want to . . . wait for Sherlock.”

Molly covered her face. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want,” she admitted desperately. “I’m so . . . I don’t know!”

“You don’t have to know,” Mary comforted softly. “There’s no rush. This move will be good for you—you’ll gain some distance emotionally and be able to think with more clarity.”

“He said . . . Greg said Sherlock needs me more than he does,” Molly wondered. “Do you think that’s true?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, dear,” Mary said firmly. “It doesn’t matter what Sherlock needs or doesn’t need; or what Greg needs or doesn’t need. What matters here is what YOU need. You never consider yourself, Molly! I want you to start thinking about what would be best for YOU.”

“But what do YOU think would be best for me?” Molly insisted. She didn’t know her own mind and longed for a new perspective.

Mary was silent for long moment, obviously struggling with her conscience about whether to speak her thoughts or refuse to put ideas into her friend’s mind. She sighed. “I think that Greg Lestrade was a patient, loving, considerate, and faithful husband for over twenty-five years to an unloving, inconsiderate, and unfaithful wife. Imagine if he were able to apply that level of commitment to someone who could appreciate him--who could love him in return.”

The thought took Molly’s breath away. 

000

Jim Browner arrived at the St. Leonard Police Office the next morning handcuffed and in a police van. He was a big, powerful chap, clean-shaven and very swarthy.

“We looked for him on his ferry,” the constable in charge explained, “but I was told that he had been acting in such an extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to relieve him of his duties. Arriving at his house, I found him seated upon his bed with his head sunk upon his hands, rocking himself to and fro. He jumped up when he heard my business, and I thought I’d have a struggle on my hands, but he seemed to have no heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the cuffs. We found no real evidence that he’d done the deed, but as it turns out we shall want no more evidence, for during the journey here he asked leave to make a statement as soon as may be.”

Browner was taken into an interrogation room with Chief Superintendent Jemison and Detective Inspector Lestrade and a recorder at the ready. Mary and Molly and the interested constable stood at the two-way mirror and listened to the exchange. 

“Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say,” the wretched man began. “I have to make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me alone. I don’t care a plug which you do. I tell you, I’ve not shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don’t believe I ever will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it’s his face, but most generally it’s hers. I’m never without one or the other before me.

“But it was Sarah’s fault, and may the curse of a broken man put a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It’s not that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink. But Mary would have forgiven me; she would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me—that’s the root of the business—she loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate when she knew I thought more of my wife’s footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and soul.

“There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a respectable woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. There was no better woman than my Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one thing led to another . . . .”

On and on the poor man rambled, and his story so dove-tailed with the stories of Susan and Sarah Cushing and with the deductions Molly and Mary had drawn from the evidence that nothing new was really brought to light, until at last he reached the climax of the tale.

“Sarah calls me four days ago and says ‘That angel of a wife of yours is going on holiday with her new man—on your very ferry this very day! They’re laughing at you, Jim! They’ll put their tongues out at you as they pass you by on their way to their private suite. And what do you think they’ll be doing in that private suite for two hours? Spiting you, that’s what!’ I tell you that from that moment I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and that morning when they boarded the ship I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears. 

“I checked them in, then turned my job over to another lad, and I took them to their room myself. It was just as if they had been given into my hands. I closed the door behind us and put my hands around that man’s blasted neck. I would have spared her, perhaps, for all my madness, but she threw her arms around him, crying out to him, so when he lay limp, I strangled her too. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she would have joined them!”

Clenching his teeth, Browner went on to describe how he had locked the bodies into the suite and then, as they pulled into port at Belfast, has sabotaged the engines so as to ensure staying put until after dark. Just as Greg had deduced, the steward had altered the manifest so it looked as if the couple had missed the boat, then bundled the bodies into a lifeboat and took them off to sea.

“No one would have ever known what happened. I know I avoided all the security cameras and patrols, easy as nothing. I ought to have left it at that. But, Lord! That Sarah Cushing had to know what she’d done, pouring her poisonous words into my Mary’s ears! So help me, before I put the bodies overboard, I pulled out my knife and . . . . Well you know what I did. Packed them up and sent them off to that devil-woman that very night.

“There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do what you like with me, but you cannot punish me-- I have been punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces staring at me. I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if I have another night of it, I shall be either mad or dead before morning. You won’t put me alone into a cell, sir? For pity’s sake don’t, and may you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me now.”

A silence followed this solemn confession, broken only by the hollow sound of hopeless sobs.

000

Molly was glad that no word was spoken by either Greg or Mary about leaving that day as they had planned. It seemed a wordless agreement among them that leaving any one of them alone after such a harrowing story was unthinkable. They spent that day exploring the sights of Molly’s new home and stayed out late that night in a local pub, talking about anything in the world except murders and misery and violence and fear. Greg’s lodgings had been booked only for the training session, but it seemed only natural for him to spend the night on Molly’s couch while the girls shared Molly’s double bed. None of them wanted to be left alone with their own thoughts that night.

But the next day, reality set in and it was time for Molly’s new life to begin and for Greg and Mary to return to theirs.

“I’ll text you every morning on my way to work,” Mary vowed earnestly, hugging her friend tightly. “And on my way home every night.”

“I will send you a card in the post once a week,” Molly promised. “And I’ll come to visit as soon as I can.”

“Erm, I wonder,” Greg ventured shyly, his hands in his pockets, “I wonder if I might call you sometimes, too? And, maybe, visit sometimes?”

Molly looked into his eyes and wondered how it was that she had known this man for eight years and had never really seen him before.

“I wish you would,” she told him sincerely. “I would like that very much.”


End file.
